


Why have I been weeping?

by thatviciousvixen



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anthony lives, Disabled Character, M/M, Non-Verbal Character, Speech Disorders, These two were made for each other imo, Well here we are, smut in later chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-12
Packaged: 2018-05-01 09:50:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5201411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatviciousvixen/pseuds/thatviciousvixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Anthony Dimmond catches wind that Hannibal Lecter has returned to Europe he hops on the first plane out. What's meant to be a simple tour of the Chesapeake Bay and an exercise in lying low turns into a quest for closure, with a companion he never expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why have I been weeping?

**Author's Note:**

> So Season 3, episode 1, this hot pretentious dude in a scarf hits on Hannibal in a bar. I say to my girlfriend, "Maybe he can be Chilton's new boyfriend!!!"
> 
> Then Hannibal broke his neck :(
> 
> This story is my attempt to give sweet Anthony Dimmond the adventure he deserves, and the smut the WE ALL deserve.

Anthony loves France in the summer, so it breaks his heart to see it grow smaller and smaller below him as the plane ascends. The crisscrossing tarmacs of Charles de Gaulle fade away and the landscape below him blurs into a patchwork of colors until all he can see is the soft velvety blanket of green fields below. It’s truly the first time he feels any sort of bitterness or loathing towards Hannibal Lecter. From the moment he woke up in that ramshackle Italian hospital he swore he wouldn’t let a little something like a broken neck get him down, and he’s done a fairly good job of it so far. But now, with the memory of the scent of fields of lavender drifting through his mind, he feels it. Feels the sorrow. The frustration. The impotence.

Still, if the FBI thinks Hannibal Lecter is somewhere in Europe then Europe is the last place Anthony Dimmond is going to be. 

“Something to drink, sir?”

His head whips over and a cavalier smile settles into his features. He nods, picking up the menu and pointing to the words _Laurent-Perrier Grand Siecle_ before signing a quick “ _thank you!_ ” He’s not really supposed to be drinking alcohol, not with the way his memory’s gone all funny since the accident...but good luck trying to keep a man who’s _bathed_ in champagne from _drinking_ it.

The glass placed in front of him bubbles and bursts on his tongue, and he’s taken back to a time now lost to him. To decadent nights and bare skin, to lazy lines of poetry traced by a fingertip across a lover’s back. He thinks of all the words he’s yet to write, all the men he’s yet to kiss, all the women he’s yet to charm.

The plane shivers as he passes through a cloud, and he thinks of the American dream.

*

Customs is a bit of a nightmare when you’re non-verbal. With no one to interpret for him he’s forced to write everything on a sheet of paper, hands shaking and letters sloppy as he rushes to answer the agent’s question. At one point he forgets the letter “C” and has to step away to catch his breath before it comes back to him. Finally someone has the good sense to ask if he knows sign language, and the rest of the interview is done through halted hand motions and the appropriate facial expressions.

As he walks away he can hear the agent murmuring to the interpreter, his obnoxiously thick Jersey accent dropping to a whisper;

“Isn’t he one of the ones Hannibal Lecter tried to kill in Italy? Anthony Dimmond?”

The interpreter clucks her tongue, giving a sad little hum. “No, no. That one died.”

 _You’re not wrong,_ Anthony thinks to himself, rolling his suitcase outside and towards a taxi stand. _You’re not right, but you’re not wrong._

*

His first stop is the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane - he doesn’t even bother to stop at his hotel first. His taxi driver merely finds a parking spot on the curb, tipped handsomely to sit and wait as Anthony seeks out his first adventure. Pen and notebook tucked carefully into his coat pocket, he walks inside. 

The woman at the intake counter is a sunny little thing, a mass of tight curls floating around her head and a smile for days. Anthony thinks about the poetry he’d write about her, if he were still able. He’d have to think of some good similes, describing someone’s skin as “chocolate” gets so tired so quickly. Maybe molasses, as thick and slick as her accent when she opens her mouth to speak.

“Good morning, can I help you?” He words are a sticky-sweet southern treacle drawl, he can practically taste it on his tongue. 

He gives the usual vague wave to his throat and apologetic glance, plucking the small Moleskin from his pocket and opening it to the first page. There - in careful letters so as not to embarrass himself with his god awful scrawl - is the name “Alana Bloom.”

A look of realization dawns on her, her honey-golden eyes lighting up before she frowns and shakes her head. “She’s not in, she’s on a leave of absence with her wife and son.”

Anthony deflates, lips twisting in a thoughtful pout. It makes sense. Alana Bloom went from Lecter’s student to lover to jailor, if he were her he’d pack up the little one and catch the first train out. Wherever she is, he wishes her the very best of luck.

He’s about to mouth a careful “thank you” when the receptionist interjects. “Dr. Chilton is back from his medical leave, though. He’s taken over duties as administrator until she returns.”

Anthony blinks at her for a moment, sifting through his piss-poor memory in search of the name. It’s like going through a dead man’s attic, digging through years of documents and belongings and photographs that were never his and don’t have much to do with him beyond the obvious connection of Hannibal Lecter. He tries to keep his own life as close to the surface as possible so he doesn’t forget it as often, so everything else gets shoved to the back until he has to go hunting for it later.

Finally, it comes. Not all of it, just a flash of a face and a knowledge that this Dr. Chilton is somehow in the same boat as him. Figures that drifted too far into Lecter’s periphery and ended up ensnared. Yes, he’d quite like to meet the man.

With a wink and a smile he nods, moving away to sit in the lush waiting area the lobby offers.

As he sits he begins mouthing words to himself, one phrase repeated again and again. “Hello Dr. Chilton, my name is Anthony Dimmond. Hello Dr. Chilton, my name is Anthony Dimmond. Hello Dr. Chilton, my name is Anthony Dimmond.” Drawing in a shaking breath, he looks down at his hands folded neatly in his lap. They’re nice hands, if his opinion counts for anything. Long fingers, not overly bony nor overly delicate, nails neat and well tended to. Those hands used to write down such decadent words, and now all they’re good for is vague hand motions and sweeping gestures as he tries helplessly to get his point across. 

Ah, well. Maybe some day.

A noise behind him grabs his attention, a sort of whirring sound coming right his way. He glances over his shoulder, catching his first glimpse of Frederick Chilton in the flesh.

What’s left of it, anyway.

He remembers now. Remembers the articles he’s read about the trials, the manhunt for the Red Dragon and everything that had burned in its wake. Frederick Chilton was a man of little luck and few friends, a constant scapegoat and decoy used in Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter’s sick sort of seduction with each other. Now he sits in a pricey looking motorized wheelchair, dressed in a smart garnet-red suit with a matching tie and a smooth, cream colored shirt. He’s got a matching cream pocket square tucked into his pocket. Anthony likes that. Despite everything, a man of fine tastes.

Chilton is a patchwork of skin grafts and scar tissue, dental plates and a false eye and what Anthony assumes is not his real hair. Horribly expensive and probably painful plastic surgery has put him back into the rough shape of what he was before, but the evidence of his trial is written all over him in a map of scars that looks like a diagram of the London tube network. Whisper-fine lines trace around his lips, so light they’re almost easy to miss.

Anthony thinks he’s quite beautiful.

The problem is, all of this thinking has pushed his practiced introduction right out of his head. He grits his teeth, reaching for his notebook.

“You’re Anthony Dimmond,” Frederick Chilton says, studying him carefully.

Anthony nods, eyes wide.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Chilton says, words more tired than unkind. “We ought to know each other on sight, after everything we’ve been through. Mutual acquaintances and all.” He adjusts the blanket covering his lap, jacket sleeve pulling up to reveal more grafting. It’s still an angry red; Anthony hopes it isn’t too painful. “Come on, let’s go talk in my office. I’ve got brandy and I assume we’re both going to need it as we play catch up.”

Anthony has to pass through a metal detector, but soon they’re riding an elevator up four flights to the administrative floor. Chilton leads him into a comfortable looking office with a large desk and plenty of books, as well as what appears to be a small nurse’s station. In a matter of moments they both have a glass of something smooth but strong, Anthony rolling the liquid over his tongue as he once again considers the fact that he’s not supposed to be drinking.

“Someone comes once a day to help change my bandages,” Chilton explains, navigating his chair easily behind his desk and motioning for Anthony to pull up a seat. “So, Thalia tells me you don’t speak. How exactly were you looking to have this conversation?”

Anthony huffs out a laugh. Again, Chilton’s demeanor is not unkind; there’s no bite in his words to hint that he thinks his time is being wasted. He is genuinely curious, and tired, and presumably in large amounts of pain. His hands flutter around nervously as if his skin itches but he cannot scratch. 

Well, if Chilton can show his scars, so can Anthony.

“I. Speak,” he says slowly, tongue tripping and stalling as he pushes the words out of his mouth. “Not...well. But yes. Speak.”

Chilton finally focuses on him, surprised. “I’d assumed-”

“That Hhhannibal damaged my vocal chords,” he slurs, grinning. “No. While I...was um. Um. Out. Down.”

“Convalescing?” Chilton supplies.

Anthony nods. “I suffered a s-stroke,” he explains. Careful. Slow. Broken. The words are there but the damn things just won’t get out of him.

Knowledge dawns on the other man’s face. “Which caused expressive aphasia. Your brain is fully functioning but your ability to say what’s on your mind is impaired.”

Anthony grins and simply nods.

A curious look crosses Chilton’s face, the man leaning forward. “Have you tried sign language at all?”

“Yes. Works sometimes,” Anthony manages. After a moment he laughs, a genuine thing that seems to take Chilton by surprise. “People think. Learning,” he says, gesturing to himself and signing a bit. “N-not that I’m an idiot.”

“I highly doubt a man who’s suffered a broken neck and a stroke can be blamed for impairments,” Chilton says blandly. 

“Either w-way,” Anthony says, shrugging. “I’d l-like to stop um, speaking now. M-may I write?”

Chilton gestures towards Anthony’s notebook to show his agreement. With a smile Anthony removes it once more, trying to keep his writing careful and measured despite how long it takes him to get some of the words down. “ _I was hoping to see where Lecter stayed while he was locked up. He’s supposedly in France right now, so I’ve decided France is quite terrible and I’d like to take a tour of Maryland._ ”

The smile returned to him is more of a smirk. “A smart choice, Mr. Dimmond. I would like to remind you though that this is a hospital, not a zoo. I’m not in the business of running the Hannibal Lecter Murder Tour for adoring fans.”

For the first time in a long time Anthony feels a flash of anger lighting up within him. He leans forward, eyes narrowing. “He b-broke. My neck,” he says, as careful as possible. “Not. A. Fan.”

Chilton sits back, apparently properly chastised. He studies Anthony closely, taking his dear sweet time to mull over the request. “I know why you’re here,” he says softly. “For the same reason I wrote the damn book, for the same reason I came to eat lunch with him every day while he was locked up. You’re obsessed with him. This monster that ruined your life, you’re obsessed.”

“My l-life...isn’t ruined,” Anthony slurs, going for flippant.

Chilton’s laugh is cold, verging on cruel. “Alright, Mr. Dimmond. If you insist.” He backs up from the desk, wheeling out to sit next to Anthony. “I’ll show you his cell. If somehow it helps you sleep at night I’ll show you whatever you want. I just hope you’re not expecting any closure, that man is too clever to ever let us close out his chapter in our lives. He takes the whole damn book with him so we’ll never get the chance.”

He gives a short nod towards the door before steering his chair away.

Anthony cannot speak, so he follows.

*

They stand facing into the cell, thick glass all that separates them from the space. “Huh.”

Frederick makes a small noise of agreement. “For some time he was quite comfortable in here. He was cooperating nicely so he was given books, paper, pencils with which to draw. It wasn’t until Dolarhyde surfaced that everything was taken away by Ms. Bloom.”

Anthony gives a small hum to acknowledge. The space is so much larger than he’d anticipated. He’d expected a tiny cell with bars and a cot, something simple and undignified. As it turns out, even Hannibal’s cell is far grander than anyone else could ever hope for. 

“It’s frustrating, isn’t it? Even after his trial everyone rushed to throw flowers at his feet. The man is a damn monster and we still bent backwards for him. At least you can say you didn’t know his true nature.”

Anthony laughs at that, a harsh sound. Of course he knew. He’d come looking for Dr. Fell and instead found someone wearing his life, teaching in his position and enjoying his accolades. How willing he’d been to ignore it all for a fancy dinner and a threesome.

Looking back, he still can’t remember what he was thinking. Probably drawn in by how grand and adventurous it all seemed. He’s not exactly a beacon of morality, but back then it had been worse. Nothing was to be taken seriously. Everything was for a laugh, and consequences were for other people. He was too poetic, too young, too vibrant.

Now he is this, and oh, what a lesson to learn.

“I knew,” is all he says, resting his palm to the divider. Something catches his eye and he looks down. About waist height there is a row of holes in the glass, easily large enough for a hand to go through. He quirks an eyebrow, grinning at Frederick. “Wh-why do your cells have...gloryholes?”

Frederick laughs. It is a genuine thing, and it’s one of the best sounds Anthony has heard in a long time.

*

They return to Frederick’s office, Anthony getting out a few of the questions that have been plaguing him and Frederick answering them to the best of his abilities. 

“ _I don’t know much about this Will Graham other than what the papers have said. That he was a friend of Lecter’s who got sucked into the vortex and now they’re murder lovers or some such nonsense._ ”

Frederick reads the note, snorting and rolling his eyes. “That’s about it. He claimed for quite some time that it was all a ruse to lull Hannibal into a false sense of security, to gain his trust so he might slip up enough for Will to bring him in. I almost believed that, and then I got shot in the face. Unfortunately it took everyone else a bit longer to catch wise.” He leans forward a bit in his chair, eyebrows raised. “Have you realized yet that you ended up on Hannibal’s radar because you look like a gay Will Graham?”

Anthony pulls his notebook back over, eyebrows knit in concentration as he writes. When he passes it back he’s smirking. In flourishing letters he’s written “bisexual Will Graham,” underlining the adjective and drawing little hearts around the word. 

Frederick chuckles, rolling his eyes. “Ever so sorry. Anyway, you’re quite different personality-wise. Will is a neatly wrapped bundle of neuroses that sat waiting patiently for Hannibal Lecter to come along and turn him into a monster. You’re a neatly wrapped bundle of neuroses that pretends to be in control by throwing yourself head first at anyone who walks into your line of sight.”

If Anthony could speak he’d be stunned into silence. He stares at Frederick, mouth working around words that aren’t going to come out. Finally he picks up his pencil and writes.

_Well that was bloody rude._

Frederick leans over to read, laughing. “I take it you’re not a man who admires bluntness. I’m sorry Mr. Dimmond, it’s been a long year and I’ve never been much for wooing wayward young men that wander into my line of sight.” He checks his phone, typing out a message to someone before tucking it back into his pocket. “Let’s go grab dinner, you can tell me what’s next on the Hannibal Lecter Murder Tour.”

**Author's Note:**

> For those wondering, Anthony's stroke affected the broca's area of his brain. Broca's aphasia can be temporary or permanent, and can take years of therapy to recover from. If you've ever had a migraine and ended up with weird jumbled speech, it's a similar (but much more temporary) experience. 
> 
> Come hang with me on [tumblr](http://that-vicious-vixen.tumblr.com)!


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